Pain Beyond Pain
by IamThePasserby
Summary: He couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but scream in total anguish, not knowing where his body began or ended, feeling, hearing, seeing nothing but the pain being afflicted on his being. It was pain beyond pain, and he welcomed unconsciousness.
1. Chapter 1

Pain Beyond Pain

The Impala cruised down an empty mountain highway in Colorado, its headlights the only brightness for miles. On the left side of the speeding car, a wide view of the clear night sky provided twinkling stars and a dark horizon. On the other, an even darker view of a deeply black and unusually dense forest came right up next to the road, seemingly threatening to overtake it and cover it completely. The night, often so alive with animal and insect sounds, was somehow silent, and thick with a blanket of quietness, like when a child plays hide and seek, and holds his breath for fear of being found. That quiet was punctured only by the sounds of the black chevy's engine and the Metallica that was coming muffledly from inside of it. Tree covered mountains loomed in the distance, suggesting that the unending expanse of wooded land could not be obstructed by such things as mere folds in the crust of the earth.

The music stopped mid-song as Dean pressed the brake, pulling the key out of the ignition. He paused only to glance at the odd magnitude of dark that lay formidably beside his selected parking place in the middle of nowhere. Raising his eyebrows, his gaze soon met that of his brother beside him in the passenger seat, and Dean took a moment to flash Sam a wry grin.

"Well, this place just certainly looks open and inviting," he remarked, always willing to offer up a serving of sarcasm in the midst of the most daunting of situations. Sam turned from looking out the window, having been taking in the forest also. He faced his older brother, looking exasperated but amused as he responded.

"Who the heck goes hiking in a jungle like that?"

"I believe the term is 'forest,' Sammy. But yeah, you kinda have to be loads of stupid to go in there for a pleasure stroll," Dean pulled a .45 from his waistband, checking the safety and grinning yet again.

"Whaddaya say we waste the evil sucker hiding up in there before she kills anymore nature-loving idiots?"

"I believe the term is 'witch,' Dean." Sam was grinning himself now.

"Yeah, whatever."

The boys exited the classic car, armed to the teeth with silver rounds and blessed ashes, ready to take on a Cave Witch for the first time in their hunting careers. As they made their way into the dense trees, guns drawn, Sam asked Dean a question for what seemed like the thousandth time.

"So remember Dean, we have to make sure-"

"Hands first, head after, I got it, I got it, you don't have to drill me."

Sam had been incredibly clear the first hundred times he had explained to Dean just exactly how to tackle this type of creature.

The Winchester brothers had picked up on a small Colorado newspaper about hiking disappearances in coincidence with a supposedly haunted forest. Having done the research - well, Sam having done the research - the conclusion came to be that the offending supernatural evil was something called a Cave Witch, someone who had been shunned for practicing magic, only to die alone in a secluded place - like, oh, say, a cave or forest - after attempting to eat parts of her own body to survive. These legendary creatures were said to be missing limbs or even just chunks of flesh, and known to be incredibly vicious, attacking any living creature on sight, starving for food and furious for being forced into seclusion. Unlike any other spirit, these had physical bodies, and could still use the magic of their days alive to harm their victims.

Sucks for the missing hikers.

Sam had called Bobby the day before for any pointers on dealing with such a foe. Bobby's reaction had been disconcerting to say the least.

"You're going after a WHAT?!"

"Uh, a cave witch? Its not that bad, I think we just need to-"

"Are you insane? Those things are the baddest, most horrible, and most difficult things to hunt, Sam."

"Really?"

"I mean it, you don't go after one of those things without knowing exactly what to do, and certainly not alone you understand me?"

"I wasn't planning on it-"

"I didn't say you were, but I'm telling you anyway. You had better watch yourself cuz those things are awful, and I mean just awful."

"You ever go up against one?"

"Me and your dad did once. Worst hunt of my life, Sam. You better listen to me and listen good. Here's what you need to do..."

Bobby had proceeded to explain that a Cave Witch could not be killed until the source of its magic was destroyed. Most used a hand or even a particular finger to control and distribute spells. These things were fast and dangerous and you needed to distract them to get a clear shot. By throwing a handful of blessed ashes at one, you could get it to pause long enough to fire silver rounds into its hands, then proceed to pump its head full of silver as well. The important part was that you had to shoot the hands first, because unless the magic was halted, the witch could not be killed.

Since then Sam had been reminding Dean every other minute to shoot the hands first, shoot the hands first, shoot the stinking hands first. It was getting annoying.

As they made their way deeper into the wood, Dean kept his eyes peeled for any sudden movements, readying himself to fire at any moment.

Sam was by his side taking point as the air around them became more confined, and the unnatural silence around them pressed on their vigilant ears.

Too bad the witch knew how to be _really_ quiet.

Sam had just turned his head the slightest bit to make sure that Dean was still behind him, a habit that usually didn't hinder their hunts. Dean saw the movement, knowing that it was Sam's way of keeping an eye out for his big brother, watching his back. Even with that small gesture Sam instilled a feeling of importance in Dean, and the older nearly smiled as he saw Sam's eyes move to double check on him. Then Dean saw the pale form of something incredibly ugly leaping out directly from Sam's new blind spot. She moved faster than it should have been physically possible to move, seemingly faster than sound, because Dean saw her with her mouth open and making sound before he heard it. In that split second that it took to raise his rfirearm, he took in the sight of her drawn, sunken face, devoid of color with skin stretched taut over a bony frame. Her stark white hair and tattered, bloodstained robes rippled behind her as she struck, her unnaturally long fingernails serving as jagged claws - claws headed straight for Sammy.

The elder Winchester managed to squeeze the trigger after what seemed an eternity, shouting a warning simultaneously, but both the sound of the cry and the gunshot were drowned out as the shrill screeching that was being made by the witch finally met his ears. The shot and shout came too late and the witch slammed into an unprepared Sam, sending him flying and then tumbling with her thirty feet, halting only when they crashed roughly into a tree.

Dean's lags couldn't carry him fast enough as he frantically made his was to his brother, seeing that the witch was still on top of him. She turned from Sam, rising and screeching furiously at Dean as he neared.

All thoughts of process left his mind as one sole goal took over: get her away from Sammy protect Sammy, _save_ Sammy.

Dean's instincts trumped the directions he had been given, and he fired directly into the screaming creature's face, pumping the trigger and swearing aloud. She shrieked once more at the sting of the silver before tearing off into the night, leaving an unmoving, unblinking Sam face up on the damp forest floor behind her.

When Dean finally reached his brother's side, he was already fearing the worst.

And the worst it was.

Sam had twisted his head slightly to the side, as was his habit when taking point on a hunt, always being careful to check his brother was safe.

The small movement had never been a problem before, Sam figured Dean never even noticed. So naturally he hadn't expected Dean to respond. Naturally he hadn't thought he'd receive a look of shock and horror from Dean's face.

Naturally, he hadn't expected a shrieking witch to collide with him at a million miles per hour.

Strangely, the pain wasn't as immediate as he would've thought - Sam was aware of flying, then tumbling, then smacking forcefully into something very solid.

Okay, now the pain was felt.

He would've yelled, would've fought back, but it takes a few seconds to collect yourself after hitting anything that hard. He managed to roll over roughly, the screeching woman still on top of him, slashing with her nails at the arms he had involuntarily raised to protect his face.

Yeah, that hurt too.

In the midst of the trying to stay conscious, trying to halt the vicious witches clawing, and trying to remember how to yell for help, Sam heard a voice yelling, a voice he recognized but couldn't quite place, seeing as he was currently distracted by the evil being in the act of tearing his forearms to shreds.

He managed to recall that he had not entered the forest alone.

Oh,...yeah.

Before Sam could even begin to wonder what had happened to Dean, the witch stopped her attack, turning away from him and rising, only to scream some more and then tear off into the forest. Sam had heard gunshots, and he desperately hoped that Dean hadn't missed, because...um, because...

All Sam's thoughts ceased to function. His body seized up, and he forgot to worry, to remember, to move.

Suddenly everything hurt to much to even comprehend what was happening around him.

Sam laid there, stiff and unblinking, unaware of the voice calling his name, unable to recall how to breathe, taken up completely in the absolute agony that was assaulting his mind, his body, his _everything_.

Then something helped him to breath, and Sam began to gulp air, not able to discern whether it was cold or not, all his senses enveloped in the suffering from unending torture he was feeling. He inhaled, gasping, only to force the air out as he began screaming uncontrollably, voicing the torment that he was experiencing. He was surely dying. You could not be feeling this and not be dying. He _had_ to be dying. _Please, let me be dying!_ This was too much to live with, Sam wanted it to end, needed it to end. Oh gosh it hurt so much, so bad, oh man make it stop, make it stop, make it STOP! He couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but scream in total anguish, not knowing where his body began or ended, feeling, hearing, seeing nothing but the pain being afflicted on his being. It was pain beyond pain, and he welcomed unconsciousness as his body reached its limit.

Dean had kneeled beside his wide-eyed brother, and he swore once he saw Sam's blood soaked sleeves. The witch had obviously hacked away at both arms, but at least nothing alse looked broken or bleeding. But why wasn't Sam moving?

"Sam? Sam..." He received no answer, and Dean leaned over his brother, snapping his fingers over his dilated eyes, trying to get a response.

"C'mon Sammy, you're okay! Sam what's wrong?!" Dean put a hand to his brother's face while he did a quick check over Sam's body for any hidden injuries.

Only then did he realize that Sam wasn't breathing.

"Sam - Sam! Stop it! Breathe! Oh, no you gotta breathe, man!" Dean blanched as the Sam's face began to redden from lack of oxygen.

"No!" Dean didn't hesitate, pinching his brother's nose and breathing air into his brother's lungs, then placing his hands on his chest, counting as he compressed Sam's diaphragm, willing Sam to take a breath. The older hunter muttered fearfully as he bent to blow into Sam's lungs again.

"Man, what did she do to you?" He pulled up, beginning chest compressions again, terrified when Sam's eyes remained unresponsive.

"Sammy!"

"Suddenly Sam's back arched hugely, his eyes watering as he gulped cold, fresh, mountain air.

Dean's immense relief might've even brought him to tears had it not been so short lived, because no sooner had Sam gotten a breath in when he began to scream. First trembling, then thrashing wildly, Sam's body moved of its own accord, wreaking havoc upon itself, and Dean was horrified to see Sam attempting to claw his own face off.

"Sam, no! Stop!" Dean pulled his still screaming brother's hands away from his face, restraining him against the ground. Dean searched his frantic mind for some clue as to what was happening, panicking because he didn't know what to do. Sam jerked in his grasp, twitched onto his side and retched. Dean knew his brother must be going through some serious pain to be reacting like this. Before the older hunter could think of what to do next, Sam's eyes rolled back into his head, and the thrashing ceased along with the screaming as he passed out.

Dean's shock didn't stop him from making one more check of Sma's vitals, noting the quickened pulse, and making sure that air was being breathed evenly by his brother before hoisting his sibling over his shoulder, groaning under the dead weight, and making his way as fast as possible out of the witch's domain and back to the Impala.

He had no sooner reached the edge of the forest and laid a still unconscious Sam beside the car before he whipped out his cell phone and dialed Bobby's number.

Kneeling beside his brother, Dean's fear at the memory of Sam's screams of agony morphed into determination and pure, unbridled fury and the witch that was still somewhere out there in the woods.

He tried not to remind himself that she would be dead right now if he had just remembered to shoot her stupid hands first. He tried not to think that Sam's arms wouldn't be bloodied and torn if Dean had blown her claws away. He tried to ignore the immense amount of guilt that was threatening to overtake him.

The phone rang, a tinny sound, and Dean waited impatiently for Bobby to answer.

The Cave Witch had done something awful to Sam, and Dean needed to know what.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Dean's eyes were darting back and forth from the forest to the road, watching for any threat that dared to consider approaching. His feet were shuffling restlessly as he waited for Bobby to pick up the phone at the other end of the line. He stole a glance at Sam, still lying unconscious on the pavement beside the Impala, and Dean silently pleaded for someone to answer.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon..." he muttered as the phone rang a third time. Then a click sounded on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Bobby, it's Dean." Whether by the sound of Dean's voice or from his intuitive hunting nature, Booby seemed to know something was wrong.

"What happened?"

"We went after the Cave Witch, but she did something to Sam-"

"Did you kill her?"

"What - no, she got away-"

"Oh no...where's Sam?"

"He's right next to me. I don't know what happened, he couldn't breath and then he was screaming and wouldn't stop. He passed out so I-I got him out of the forest, but I don't know wh-what's wrong with him..."

"Dean, Dean, calm down. You need to listen to me okay? That witch got Sam pretty good, but he'll be okay, alright? He's gonna be okay."

"What's the matter with him?"

"I'll explain, but you need to get him in the car now and start driving. Fast."

Dean moved as quickly as possible, holding the phone between his chin and shoulder as he lugged Sam into the back seat before running to the driver's side and starting the car. As he pulled onto the still empty highway, Dean glanced at Sam's form in the rearview mirror, thoroughly uncomfortable with not knowing what was up.

"Okay, I'm driving." Dean heard Bobby inhale on the other end.

"Alright, you said you were in Colorado, right?"

"Yeah."

"How far from Boulder?"

"I'd guess twenty minutes."

"Make it ten, Dean. There's a cabin out there you can stay in. I'd have you bring him to my place, but no way you're gonna be able to travel with him."

"Bobby what's wrong with Sam?" Dean was really freaking out now. If Bobby was so concerned then it had to be bad. If he was avoiding explaining it had to be worse.

"Okay, look. I told you Me and your dad faced one of these things before - well, same thing happened to us as what's happened with you guys, 'cept it was me in Sam's place. The good news is he'll be just fine in about six days."

"Six-!"

"Bad news is that he'll be going through a living hell the whole time and you're gonna have to take care of him Dean, and I'm telling you it's not gonna be easy." Dean's mouth gaped as his mind contemplated what could possibly ail his brother for almost a whole week.

"Of course I'll take care of him. What do I need to do?"

"Get to that cabin, and tie him to the bed."

"What?!"

"Dean, that screaming was nothing. Sam'll probably scream for three days straight, unless his voice goes out. He'll try to hurt himself, hit, scratch, thrash - anything his subconscious can think of to get rid of the pain."

"Three-!"

"Then he'll kind of come to, and he'll talk some and probably stop acting as crazy, but he's gonna say and try some awful things."

"What do you mean?"

"He'll probably ask you to kill him for a while, then he'll try to do it himself when you refuse."

"Bobby-"

"Dean, when it happened to me, it was the most terrible, painful thing I've ever felt, and I begged John to kill me. I cried and yelled and hollered, and then I tried to shoot myself-"

"You what?!"

"Twice."

The older brother sat, wide eyed and speechless. He let Bobby give him some more instructions and direction to the cabin. They had to be away from any nearby towns so that passerby wouldnt hear Sam screaming. Dean exhaled, glancing fearfully at Sam, wondering what the next six days would hold for them both.

Sam awoke to the sound of his own sobs. Even sobbing he managed to cry out, screaming like he'd never screamed in his life. His back was on fire. His chest was being torn open. His arms and legs were being ripped from his body, his head was splitting in two, three, ten parts. His eyes were rolling, and he mentally begged God, Satan, anyone to just let him die. Death would be a kind reprieve. Unless he was already dead. This could easily be hell. Knives were stabbing him everywhere, his fleshing was being shredded, every bone within him was surely broken. He couldn't see, couldn't tell whether he was moving or lying still, totally clueless as to where he was.

He had no idea that his brother was beside him in a small Colorado cabin, staring horrified at Sam pulling harshly at the ropes that held his arms and legs to respective bedposts. He had no inkling that there was a piece wood being held in his mouth to keep him from biting his own tongue off. He couldnt tell that Dean had his head in his free hand as he listened to Sam's anguished cries until the younger Winchester's body gave up for the second time, choosing to shut off temporarily rather than endure any more suffering.

He had no idea that Dean cried as he dressed Sam's newly injured wrists, cut and bleeding from pulling against the rope.

Dean had made it to the cabin in eight minutes. He'd had to run two red lights, four stop signs, and almost hit a rabbit to do it, but he had made it in eight minutes.

It still wasn't quick enough.

He'd pulled up roughly to the small, wooden cabin, seeing the two small windows, the big, thick door, and the three steps leading to it. He'd rushed to the backseat, silently thanking god, or whoever, that Sam was still out of it. Of course, those thanks were swiftly retracted. As Dean pulled his brother's body out of the Impala, groaning under the his weight, Sam began to stir.

Dean froze just momentarily, trying his best to prepare himself for what he knew would come, attempting to convince himself that he could handle it, that he would handle it, that knowing it was only temporary was enough, that knowing Sam would be alright in one short week was all that mattered.

His little brother's voice sounded, verbalizing in wordless screams of obvious agony the truth to Dean.

This was going to be the longest, most horrible week of his existence.

Dean cringed at the sound of Sam's whimpers, hating the grating quality of each scream that began with a gasp and ended only when more air was needed. He dragged his thrashing and jerking brother to the steps, fighting to pull Sam as quickly as possible into the cabin and keep him from injuring himself as well.

"C'mon Sammy!" Sam pushed away the hands that tried to scratched Sam's face, blocked the punches that his younger brother threw at himself. Dean managed to drag Sam, who was shaking and crying, halfway through the door.

It was destroying Dean to see Sammy this way.

He continued to maneuver, but between dragging Sam's weight and halting his self-violations, he was having a tremendously hard time of it.

"Augh, Sam, Sam stop! Stay with me man - Sam? Wait, Sam NO!" Sam ripped himself from Dean's grasp, and proceeded to slam his own head down onto the hard floor of the cabin, connecting with a loud thud. Dean's heart stopped when Sam stopped moving, and he immediately knelt beside his brother, silently berating himself for not being able to do this adequately.

"Dangit Sammy, if you give yourself a concussion…" the unheard threat died on his lips when he realized that Sam probably wouldn't even notice a head injury.

He was relieved to find that his younger sibling had only knocked himself out, which in fact made it much easier for Dean to hoist Sam onto the surprisingly large bed. Dean didn't stop to catch his breath. He rapidly set about tying Sam's arms and legs to respective bedpost, remembering to grab a bottle of water and all of their first aid supplies from the Impala before settling himself into a chair beside the bed in the dimly lit cabin. Only one small gas lamp provided a way for Dean to see the huge gashes in Sam's forearms. Only that small light allowed him to dress the wounds inflicted by the witch. And when Sam awoke screaming for the third time that night, it was that small flame that showed Sam's eyes rolling back in his head and revealed how harshly he was pulling on the ropes that held him in place.

It was by that lamp that Dean was forced to watch helplessly as Sam endured pain beyond pain. , and as Sam fell into unconsciousness only minutes later, Dean felt the tears sting in his eyes when he remembered that this was all his fault. He sensed the warm wetness rolling down his cheeks while he dressed Sam's new cuts, knowing that he could've prevented this suffering.

Dean wept for the guilt. He wept for having to see Sam hurting so badly. He wept because he couldn't take Sam's place, fight the pain away, or stop it from happening, now.

He wept - because he could do nothing else.

Sam's voice went out at about three o'clock the next afternoon. He'd screamed and shouted, unintelligible as far as words were concerned. He hadn't passed out again, but remained conscious throughout the entire night, crying out and shedding tears as Dean watched with an indescribable expression of horror, sadness, guilt, and shame.

When his voice finally gave out, Sam merely twisted and jerked on the bed, pulling at the ropes, whimpering and gasping in obvious pain. Dean kept adjusting – adjusting the small piece of wood keeping Sam from biting into his tongue, adjusting the ropes so that they wouldn't rub against Sam's bandaged arms, adjusting himself to make sure he could keep a hold on his twitching brother, keeping him as still as possible, and adjusting his eyes to the growing light that came through the window as the sun rose.

Staying awake hadn't been a problem. It's kinda hard to sleep when your brother is suffering through unending torture, screaming continuously, and thrashing roughly in torment. Not to mention the fact that Dean was beating himself up brutally for letting this happen at all. He truly hated himself, cursed himself for not taking point in the forest, for not heeding the instructions Sam had drilled him with, for not being more careful, more cautious, more…period. He should have been faster, he should have been smarter, he should have known better than to let any stupid hunt get the best of him. It should be me, he thought with a pang of self-aimed disgust, it should be me on that bed, not Sam…not Sammy…never Sammy. Dean fervently wished for some way, any kind of way to make this better, to help his brother. Seeing Sam like this – seeing him in agony, completely under the spell of this anguish, thoroughly hurting – it was more than he could take.

And so, it was with care that Dean wrapped his arms around Sammy, cradling his shaking head in his embrace, holding close what he could reach of his sibling's tense and trembling body. It was with desperation that he spoke words of comfort and assurance softly throughout the dark of the nighttime, offering the only kind of comfort he could give, unsure if he was even heard. It was with loyalty that he never moved from his brother's side, willing and wishing away whatever spell it was that was so ailing Sam. And it was with total, utter detestation that he regarded himself, wondering whether he even deserved to be so close to the one who would always be a boy in his eyes. Dean wondered if he should be allowed to be so near to this person whom he was so devoted to, who was so afflicted because of him. He wondered how great of a punishment his failure to protect was worthy of…surely he shouldn't be allowed to remain in the company of the only one he'd ever wanted to always have fighting beside him. But Dean never let go, not wanting to commit a greater crime by abandoning his brother, not daring to stray even a mere minute for fear of losing what was so nearly lost in the Colorado forest. He was afraid for his brother, he was afraid for himself, and he was afraid of the daunting trial that he knew awaited him in the coming days. As the second day, and then the second night, passed unbearably slow, Dean prepared himself as best as he was able for what Bobby had warned him of.

Keep him tied up. No matter what he says, don't let him loose. He's gonna start improvising, and you know how smart he is. He'll beg and beg Dean, but when he realizes that you won't kill him, he's gonna try to end it any way he can. There's no reasoning with him, and there's no stopping what's hurting him. And he probably won't want to eat, but you have to make him take something - at least try. He might be able to go a week without food, but not without water.

Just watch out for him Dean, and I mean really, because he could still go into shock or even cardiac arrest if he doesn't stay under control. You need to keep him calm – it'll be practically impossible, but you have to keep telling him it'll be over soon, it'll stop, it won't stay like this, or he'll just snap. Insanity is not an impossibility here, and you're the only anchor he's gonna have. Keep him with ya, Dean. Keep him anchored. Keep him strong.

Keep him strong…keep him strong. It was the only thing Dean could tell himself, the only way he could ready his mind and his will for what lay ahead. He had to keep Sammy sane. He had to keep Sammy safe. He had to keep Sammy strong.

As the sun rose on the third day, a slight question itched in the back of his mind. It sat there, ignored and unanswered, but not invisible. The question nudged and nibbled, trying to break through what was left of Dean's emotional barriers, attempting to force him to recall the fear he had placed into the deep recesses of himself. The question remained in the dark, waiting to be acknowledged.

Dean needed to keep Sam strong. He needed to be strong for Sam. He needed to stay strong for him. He had to keep Sammy strong.

The question burned. Was Dean strong enough?


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Dawn came and went, the sun that had just risen above the Colorado horizon provided light to the land below. The fiery star's beam's of light made its way over trees and rivers, through a valley and past mountains, reaching a small, smudgy pane of glass that had long since needed cleaning. The window had no curtain, no blinds – only the dirt on the outside and the dust on the inside prevented a passing bird from seeing through it, kept the surrounding forest's creatures from knowing who lay within the long abandoned cabin.

But no amount of glass window or wooden wall could keep the forest from hearing the screams that echoed from the old dwelling, screams that forced every badger and squirrel to shy away and hide away for fear that whatever was hurting whomever was screaming might hurt them as well. Every animal's instinct and every insect's tendency told them all to stay away from the cabin, because the screams warned them of horrors they could not understand and would never want to encounter.

Even after nearly two days had passed, and silence had returned to the wooded land, the animals stayed away, allowing the silence to surround the cabin eerily, as if the area was unnaturally devoid of life.

But life was there inside that cabin. Life remained, however silent that Colorado forest might have been. And through the dawn of the third day that the place was inhabited, the life inside struggled on.

Dean wiped a hand across his face, the stubble of two days without a shave scratching his palm and pulling slightly at the skin of his cheek. He sat in a stiff wooden chair beside a large bed with a wooden frame, upon which lay the form a man who seemed defeated. To anyone else, the shivering body bound to the four posts with sweat pouring down his face and whimpers sounding from his mouth might have appeared pathetic, disturbingly pitiful even. But to Dean, Sam looked anything but pathetic or pitiful, because to Dean, his kid brother was a hero for enduring whatever torture his mind and body was being submitted to.

Dean wiped Sam's brow again with a towel he'd found in the Impala, clearing his throat as he tried to think of something comforting to say to Sammy. Sam's eyes were half open, his pupils roaming around without seeing, his face a grimace covered in too many tears. Dean stroked his brother's shaggy hair, hoping desperately that Sam knew he was here, that Dean was going to take care of him and avenge whatever pain he was suffering right now.

Dean sighed when he could think of nothing meaningful or even remotely helpful to say to his brother who probably couldn't hear him anyway. He left the bedside only to cross the room to a door that led to a bathroom with a small but working sink, and he filled a glass with lukewarm water from the faucet. Ignoring his own thirst, he returned to Sam's side setting the glass down on the bedside table before taking his brother's hand and bracing himself for what was coming.

"Sammy. Sammy can you hear me?" Sam made no sign that he even knew Dean existed, only squirmed weakly against the ropes that wrapped around his wrists and ankles, causing Dean to cringe as he felt a pang from remembering how awful it felt to tie him up.

"Sammy," Dean said again, his voice slightly rough with the emotion that had refused to leave since they'd come here. He turned to take the glass of water from the table, scooting himself a little closer to Sam as he spoke with a look of hopelessness on his face, "I've got to try this again, and I need you to take it this time, okay? Please, you've got to drink this, buddy." Receiving as much response as he gotten every other time Dean had tried to get Sam to drink something, Dean hesitated.

Bobby had reminded Dean when they'd spoken on the phone that Sam could not survive a week without water. Getting him to eat would be impossible, but he had to drink something. However, getting anything down Sam's throat was becoming increasingly difficult. All he did was try to inhale the liquid, and twice Dean had almost panicked when Sam nearly drowned instead of drinking.

Dean didn't want a scare like that again. Dean didn't want any of this. Dean didn't want Sam to be hurting, or screaming, or crying or whimpering or any of the crap that the Cave Witch had done to him. Chiding himself silently, Dean knew that he didn't want a lot of things, but that didn't change the way things were. Gritting his teeth, he cupped Sam's head in his free hand and tried to coax him to drink while his other hand brought the full glass to trembling lips.

He was shocked when an actual word, albeit a very hoarse and quiet word, came from Sammy's mouth.

"No…" Dean nearly spilled the water all over Sam. He quickly put the glass aside before leaning as close to Sam as he could, putting his hands on his face and shoulder, trying to let him know he was here.

"Sammy! Sam, it's me! I'm right here…"

"St-stop…" Sam's eyelids were fluttering, fresh tears were snaking down the sides of his face, and his forehead and features were creased in a painful, pleading expression, "stop…_please_…" Dean didn't know what to do, what to say. Swallowing as he cast his mind around for something to say, he remembered Bobby's instructions to let Sam know it would be over soon. _Soon? Yeah right, try three more days…_

"Sam, it's gonna be ok, I'm right here-"

"Dean…" despite the severe amount of guilt, shame, and helplessness that had settled over Dean like a thick blanket over the past days, he suddenly felt an immediate elation flood every inch of him. Somehow, the sound of Sam saying his name, however pained or strained it was, brought him an incredible amount of hope, joy, and comfort that was drastically at odds with the situation.

"Yeah Sammy, I'm here! It's me, I've gotcha…"

"Dean stop," Sam's voice cracked on the last word and he sobbed once, finally opening his eyes all the way and staring wild and unfocused at the ceiling, "please Dean…"

The sandy-haired hunter's bubble of happiness that he'd felt moments before popped and horror coursed through his system once more. Guilt and shame multiplied tenfold, and he gazed transfixed as Sam's wounded expression found him, begging with his brown eyes as he began to cry in earnest.

"Wh-what did I do?...Please…I-I'm sorry…Stop, please…" Sam's words faded to random mumblings in the midst of rising sobs and gushing tears, the only discernable word being Dean's name uttered every few seconds. Sam's eyes shut again and he cried like a child with Dean staring aghast at him.

Dean realized with a sudden blast of nausea that Sam thought _he_ was hurting him. Sam thought _Dean_ was _punishing_ him for something. Rising shakily and nearly toppling over the chair, Dean stumbled to the bathroom and retched. Dry heaves racked his body as he imagined what Sam must be thinking, feeling, believing that Dean was the one torturing him, making him suffer. Disgusted with the sick thoughts that cluttered his mind, images of Sam begging for reprieve and apologizing for nothing, Dean went back to the chair and sat with his head in his hands.

He had thought that once Sam began to talk he would feel better, because it would mean that Sam was getting better. Instead it made him feel intensely worse.

Someone was burning him with acid. Hot oil was being poured onto his skin and injected into his body. Needles and thorns were puncturing him everywhere, piercing him and being followed by bugs that crawled inside him and through him, biting him and stinging him inside all over his body, scraping along the insides of his veins and ripping through his stomach and brain. He could feel himself breaking, broken, splitting and already in countless pieces. He was on fire. He was boiling in a penetrating poison that seeped into him and made him ache and bruise, not that it mattered because his skin was being ripped from his body anyway. Someone was taking a cheese grater and scraping it across his arms and legs, slicing him open and refusing to stop. Someone was crushing him, pressing on him and creating so much pressure that he was sure he should have burst already. He was being stretched, pulled apart by some heinous torture devise that wrenched limbs from sockets, pulling until you came apart, if he hadn't gotten to that point already. Every moment a new sensation, a worse pain than he could ever have imagined seized him, taking hold and continuing forever, ceaseless and ever increasing as more coals were heaped on the fire he couldn't see, more swords that evaded his vision sliced through him, and more people he couldn't identify joined in to torture him in the darkness he couldn't escape from, couldn't breathe in, couldn't take for one more second.

And he knew that he was in hell. He knew that this was the damnedest of places, that this was the Lake of Fire so many people refused to believe in. And he knew that he was dead, that he was going to be subjected to this indescribable pain for eternity. And he knew that there was no God who could save him from this, no angels to guard him, nothing but demons and hellfire and this endless pain that would never stop never stop never stop never stop…

_Sammy_

The pain doubled. Desperately, he hoped with what little sanity he had left that it wasn't true, that Dean wasn't here too, that his brother didn't have to suffer through this same torture. He wished with all the might he no longer had that Dean could be anywhere but here, any place but surrounded by unstoppable torment and ceaseless suffering. He prayed to the God he knew he was separated from in this hell, begging for Dean to be spared from this, swearing that he would endure this for twice of eternity without complaint if only Dean could just be spared.

_Sammy_

"No," for the first time in Sam didn't know how long, he heard his own voice. It was wrong, small, slow, and hoarse, but it was him.

And for the first time in what must have years since he'd been sentenced to this agony, Sam entertained the thought that he was not dead, that he wasn't imprisoned forever in a hell he didn't deserve. For the first time, Sam considered with what little of his mind he had left that comprehended anything that maybe he was alive, because if he were in hell, Dean wouldn't be there.

Wherever he was, it wasn't hell if Dean was there with him.

Sam felt the knives, the fire, the acid, poison. If he was alive, then who was doing this to him? Why was this happening? How was it possible to torture him like this? Why wouldn't it end? Why couldn't he just die? Why wouldn't they just kill him? What had he done? What had he done to deserve this? Who was punishing him? What for?

_Sam it's me…I'm right here…_

Dean. Dean? Why was Dean just watching? Why wasn't Dean stopping them? Why wouldn't Dean do something? Why did Dean hate him so much that he would let him suffer like this? Why didn't Dean love him anymore? What had he done to make Dean so angry? What had he done to make Dean hate him?

For the first time in ages, Sam was aware of where his face was, where his eyes were, his lips and his head. He tried desperately to open his eyes, thoroughly enveloped in anguish but needing to know who was making it happen.

Eyes almost open, eyelids fluttering with the enormous effort he was exerting, he caught a glimpse of his brother and no one else.

And suddenly, Sam understood. It was Dean. It was _Dean_. Dean was hating him, hurting him, punishing him for something he must have done. Sam didn't know why, didn't know what he'd done, but he knew that it was Dean who was torturing him senseless, making him lose his mind, creating a proverbial hell that he couldn't escape.

The pain that came from that realization dwarfed everything else.

And Sam decided that he would rather endure hell for eternity being tormented by demons than for Dean to be hurting him like this.

"St-stop," Sam begged, feeling somehow that his mind was bending, that insanity was closing in on him, that any moment he would break and no longer have comprehensive thought, "stop…_please_…" Sam could sense that he was almost there, that he could snap at any moment, the revelation that his hero hated him this much was bringing him to a point that his mentality would not survive, "Dean…Dean stop…please Dean…" Sam realized that his eyes were open, and his gaze roved around the space he was in, searching for the face that he wanted to see one more time before he lost his mind even if that face hated him now. He found Dean's face, and even through the knowledge that it was the face of his tormenter, Sam felt the bending in his mind ease, as if the sight of Dean brought him that much further from insanity.

Sam felt through the pain and knew that he was crying.

"Wh-what did I do?" Sam asked, pleading weakly as he gazed at his brother, his everything, his home, his world, "Please…I-I'm sorry," for some reason it was important that Dean know Sam was sorry for whatever he had done. Sam didn't want Dean to hate him, but maybe he deserved it. Maybe he deserved what Dean was doing to him.

But still, Sam wanted it to stop.

"Stop, please…" and Sam couldn't continue. A fresh wave of agony washed over him, covering him and stings and stabs, burns and boils, hurting him constantly while he sobbed softly, wishing that his brother would love him again.

Sam lost time, sight, and sound. He returned to the place he had been before where he couldn't see anything or hardly think, the place he had thought was hell until he had realized that Dean had put him there.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

Dean felt his heart break for the umpteenth time. His walls had long since crumbled, and he struggled to keep tears from reappearing in his already red-rimmed, swollen eyes.

It was nearly midnight. Sam had finally started to drink water just hours ago, and Dean felt an miniscule amount of relief from that fact. The problem was that Sam was still suffering, and he still seemed to think that Dean was making it happen.

"Sam I'm not-"

"What did I do?"

"Nothing, Sammy, it was the witch-!"

"I'm sorry…"

"No, Sam! _I'm_ sorry!" Dean stopped pacing, running a hand through his unkept hair, and strode over to the bedside once more. Grasping Sam's still trembling arm, Dean pleaded with his eyes for Sam to understand him, believe him, "I'm sorry I don't know how to fix this, I'm sorry I can't make it go away! But I would never, ever hurt you this way, Sam! I'm not mad at you, I don't hate you, but I have no way to make it stop, Sammy." Dean gulped down a sob and tried to regain control, reigning in the intense emotion that he couldn't seem to get rid of, "I'm sorry this is happening Sam, I'm sorry I couldn't stop it, I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. You did nothing wrong, this isn't your fault, it's mine, I should have done better; but I would do anything to take it away!"

Dean could see clearly how hard it was for Sam to say anything, and he was slightly awed by his brother's ability to speak even in the midst of torture. But this time Sam didn't say anything back; he simply looked into Dean's leaking eyes, and they communicated in a form that was too deep for words, too precious to say out loud.

And Dean knew that Sam believed him.

Sam turned his head, returning his gaze to the ceiling, twisting in his bonds and groaning. Dean sighed heavily, feeling as though he'd just run a marathon, and sat back into the chair that stood hard and cold beside the bed.

Dean decided that after this was over, he never wanted to come back to Colorado.

Midnight was gone, and the wee hours of the morning saw the brother's in the same positions they'd been in for nearly fifty-two hours. Dean had managed to get Sam to drink some more water, but Sam hadn't done much more than squirm weakly and cry out occasionally.

Every shout hit Dean like a truck, taking his breath away and sending a shock through his body.

Every whimper shot through him like a bullet, leaving a gaping wound that couldn't be cured.

Every struggle Sam made against the ropes, moving uselessly, was hurting so badly, Dean hated himself because he could do nothing.

And so Dean sat defeated and did nothing until the sun rose behind him and shone through the little window behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The next day passed much the same as the others had.

"Dean…" The older Winchester closed his eyes momentarily, hated the grating quality of his brother's voice, the sound of a throat hoarse from screaming, the sound of a voice that was half whimper and half whisper, the sound of a voice that was so wonderfully familiar yet so terribly foreign.

Sam's voice, pained and scared.

"I'm here, Sam…" it was all Dean could say, all he'd been saying the whole day long. He was useless, but he was here. He was worthless, but he was here. He felt guilty, shamed, disgusted and terrified, but he was here.

It didn't seem like enough.

With a sigh much like the many that he'd given in the last few days, Dean once again put a hand to the side of Sammy's face, speaking whatever words of assurance he could muster, giving the best effort he could to stay strong for Sam, keep him anchored, keep him sane.

He was exhausted. This was the fourth day. Not even the _real_ fourth day. It'd only been three and a half days, because Sam had been attacked at night. Three days, and nearly four nights. Only four out of six had passed, and already he felt like a drone, every horrifying moment too hideous to process, every emotion just mixing in with the rest that clouded his head and heart. Dean couldn't voluntarily make an expression on his face anymore; cringing and wincing and screwing up his face to push back tears so often had left his face nearly numb. His vocabulary had lessened dramatically, now only including words like 'Sammy', 'sorry', and 'here', limiting him to phrases like 'I'm here', 'I'm sorry', or 'Sammy, it'll be okay."

But would it?

The thought plagued him, weaving through his thoughts, nudging him and stinging him. He wondered if Sam _would_ ever be the same, would ever stop hurting, would ever laugh again or call him a jerk again or complain that his coffee didn't have enough cream. Dean questioned if, even when these six horrible days had ended and the witches curse dissipated as it was supposed to; would Sam even be _Sam_ anymore. Would he still be his sappy, geeky, treasured brother? Or a shell of a man, driven to insanity by torture so unbelievably intense and long suffered?

Dean wondered. Even when this torture was over, would another kind take its place?

Sam didn't understand.

He couldn't understand why. He couldn't understand how. He could find no logical course of events, could recall no memory of normalcy, nothing that helped him to understand what was happening.

And he couldn't stop wanting to.

The searing heat lashed out at him, the scourging sting sliced into him, and his mind continued to bend into oblivion. The blazing, the tearing, the pulling and smashing and grating and breaking and never ending agony. It made his psyche spread itself thin, liable to split at any moment, poised to shatter so soon, bringing with it an end to all feeling and knowledge, because insanity was desired now, insanity would be bliss; to not know anymore what pain was or meant, to have no existence to wish for or want back, to not crave numbness or comfort or death.

He knew he would lose his mind soon.

_I'm here_

Once again aware of his face, he twisted it into a minute show of what he was experiencing.

_It'll be okay_

Just like before, the bend eased, the pull on his mind to come apart seemed to lessen, and he found himself anchored if only for the time being back where he had thought and knowledge and a body and a name.

_Sammy_

Sam managed to open his eyes, and he wrenched his eyes around in their sockets, desperate to find the face of the only thing that kept him from being fully broken, the only person who stopped the bend from snapping.

"Dean…" the sound of his voice was almost foreign to him. He wondered how long it had been since he'd used it last, how long it had been since hell became his existence. Sam felt a tremor rush through him as his senses were assaulted more still. He found the face of his brother, and watched while the face spoke.

"I'm here, Sam…" the bend eased even more, the sound of Dean's voice forcing him back into some semblance of reality, where Sam hurt no less, but he still knew who he was.

But it was continuous agony, and all Sam wanted was for it to stop.

"Dean," he heard himself say again, "help m-me." His brother, his hero, his protector. Why couldn't Dean do something…?

Through the scorching and piercing, he recognized the emotion in his brother's eyes, the sadness and the longing as Dean spoke again with that voice that was usually so reassuring and comforting and now only felt meaningless.

"I'm trying, Sammy," his big brother's jade eyes looked oddly flooded, and swollen, "there's nothing I can do about it, we just have to wait for it to go away. It'll won't last forever, Sam-"

"I _can't_," Sam gritted his teeth against the throbbing and the stabbing. He didn't know how long this would last, but he couldn't do this, couldn't make it through much longer before he lost it completely, even with Dean here, "I…I'm going to go _insane_…"

And he saw through his own flooding eyes that Dean knew he was serious. He sensed his brother lean closer, gripping his arm though he could feel no touch, only torture. He saw the fleeting panic, the fear and the demand, the green eyes that spoke volumes Dean's voice could not reach.

"Stay with me," Dean implored, and Sam felt a sob building in his throat, "don't you give in! I swear, it'll stop, it'll be over soon."

The sobs died away even though the enveloping pain did not, and Sam felt a click in his haggard mind as he grasped hold of something he had not realized amidst the shredding and slashing.

"What?" he stared at Dean, making sense of what his older brother had been reminding him the whole time.

"Bobby said," Dean insisted, sounding only slightly relieved that Sam seemed not to have snapped yet, "he said it would be over in six days, it would only last six days…"

Horror overshadowing everything prior cascaded over Sam in a raging torrent, mixing with the agony and chasing it around and through his body. He was shaking more now, not only from pain but from dreadful revelation.

"How long," Sam croaked, eyes still focused unblinking on Dean's pleading face. The question seemed to confuse the older hunter.

"Wh-what?"

"How long," Sam felt the expression on his face become stony, his eyes wide and his brow creased, "since it happened." Dean looked at him, clearly not understanding what it was that must have made the blood drain from Sam's face, what was so awful to think of that he was reacting in this way. Still, Dean responded immediately, even if in a quieter, less urgent voice.

"Three days and four nights," came Dean's reply. Sam felt his eyes bulge hugely.

"Sam?" Sam ignored the concern coming off of his brother in waves. Suddenly the bend began again, and insanity beckoned him, promising reprieve from the knowledge he'd just acquired, from the spinning, whirling reality that had just slapped him in the face. Suddenly the acid and the knives and the fire were joined by a desperate desire for it to be a lie, for what Dean was telling him not to be true, for this admission to be a deception, because it simply _couldn't_ be true, it couldn't be _real_, it _couldn't_ have only been _days…_

"No," he croaked, no longer looking at Dean, but staring mortified at the ceiling, begging for it to be a lie.

"Sam, what is it-"

"Years," Sam rasped, turning once more to meet his brother's frightened gaze, "it-it's been years, Dean." It had to have been. He'd been suffering for endless ages, lifetime upon lifetime, decades and centuries and millennia to numerous to account for. He'd been subjected to this hell, this ceaseless suffering for so long that surely time and space must have ended. It couldn't have only been _days_, the time he'd spent like this couldn't possibly be measured in mere _hours_, it wasn't true, it couldn't be true, why was Dean_ lying_ to him…

"No," Dean was whispering now, looking crestfallen and dismayed, "no, Sammy, it's only been a few days."

And Sam knew that it was true. His breathing quickened, and Sam knew he couldn't take it anymore. It had only been days, and there were still days left that he would be forced to endure, and he _could not do it_. Fresh tears streamed down his face, soaking his hair and skin but he did not care. He cried in earnest, cried like a child because he had no more dignity, had no reason to fear humiliation, no care for manhood or strength, because his strength was spent and gone.

All Sam wanted in that moment was for his life to be gone too.

"Kill me," he sobbed, begging hopelessly, "kill me, please…"

"Sam, it'll be okay, it'll be over. Soon, Sam-"

"I c-can't do it," Sam's eyes were rolling, "_please_…I want to die…"

"Sammy-"

"Please, Dean!"

"I-I," Dean sounded truly sorry, "I can't…I…I just can't."

Sam wrenched his eyes open, glaring as much as he could between the pain and the tears, and he decided he would _not_ endure this, he could _not_ survive this, it was too much, and he would end it himself.

He felt through the constant onslaught of hurt, ignoring the bend in his head, forgetting insanity's tempting call, finding his way to that part of himself that knew how to control his body. He knew that he could not move an inch, but there was something he could do that took almost no movement at all.

Sam shut his eyes tightly, praying for the pain to halt, and held his breath.

And held it.

And held it.

He lost count of the time, ignoring Dean's terrified shouts, refusing to acknowledge the hands that tried to make him stop, fighting the urge to inhale for he didn't know how long until darkness consumed him once more, and he fell into a nothingness where pain could not follow.

It was the one of the most terrifying moments of his life.

Sam held his breath for over three minutes, and Dean could do nothing to make him stop. Yelling at him and begging him, shaking him and pleading with him, Dean was forced to watch Sam's face redden, his lips pale, and his eyes roll back into his head as he jerked twice, spasms rocking him, and then fell limp.

By the grace of some good god that Dean gave eternal thanks to, Sam hadn't managed to kill himself, only made himself pass out.

Still, it was an experience Dean never wanted to go through again.

The relief that had risen up inside of him when he found Sam's pulse, when he heard his even breathing; it brought him to his knees. His legs buckled, their support wholly gone, and he sat on the floor against the bed with his face on his arms, trying not to be sick.

This was too hard. Sam had just tried to kill himself. What else would he do? What would happen when he woke up? Dean was sure some form of shock would take hold, and he wasn't sure what he would do if it came to that.

Dean wiped his face, drying it with his sleeve, thinking that he wanted this week to be over just so that he could stop crying like a chick every other minute. One thing was for sure; as soon as Sam got better, the walls were coming right back up.

This emotion stuff was just too draining.

It felt like he spent hours sitting there and collecting himself, but when he looked at his watch, only half an hour had past. He leaned his head back against the mattress of the bed, every part of his body tired from spending nearly every hour awake and scared, sick of living off of Top Ramen and Saltine Cracker's. He wanted to sleep for a week, but Sam needed him; Sam was close to losing it, he was giving up, giving in. Dean couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't…

He awoke with a start for no reason other than he must have sensed it was coming. Dean blinked blearily, rubbing his eyes and pulling himself up off of the ground and into his chair. He'd barely had time to check his watch and yawn before Sam awoke with an odd jerk, a yell, and a cough.

Dean jumped, but recovered quickly enough to be hovering over Sam in a heartbeat.

"Sam?! Oh god, Sammy, don't you ever do that to me again! I almost had a heart attack, man!" Despite how much he wanted to be angry, there was no reproach in his tone, only a bleak kind of urgency. Unable to do much else, Dean settled for laying his hand on his brother's strangely still arm.

"How long?" The sheer hardness of Sam's voice threw Dean off. He'd expected Sam to be more upset, hysterical even, upon realizing he hadn't died. The cold, dry quality of Sam's question made Dean wary to answer it for fear of the reaction.

"Please," Dean whispered, "don't do that again, Sammy."

"How. Long." Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever was to come after his response.

"Almost an hour," he saw Sam's eyes close tightly in defeat and disappointment, his chin shivering, "You passed out about forty-seven minutes ago."

That seemed like the thing that flipped the switch. Sam let out one gasping sob, and Dean knew his brother had at least hoped he'd been unconscious long enough to lessen the length of time he had left least somewhat significantly. Sam started gasping, eyes wide and just plain sad. Dean wondered how many tears Sam could possibly have left.

But Sam didn't cry. He kept sucking in shallow breaths, but he didn't sob, he didn't slow. His panting instantly became heavier, and with a jolt Dean realized he had been right; it was too much for Sam to take, and his body was going into shock.

"N-no! NO! SAAAAM!" Dean tore off the ropes on the bed posts, freeing Sam's arms and legs. He pulled Sam sitting up and into a kind of embrace, sitting and holding him close, speaking quickly, loudly.

"It's ok, man, I've gotcha! Sam-Sammy! I need you to slow down, ok, slow down with me!" Dean could feel how accelerated Sam's heartbeat was, how fast it was pounding in his chest, and all the while he was hyperventilating, gasping loudly with his eyes wide and staring over Dean's shoulder.

"C'mon, Sammy, don't do this; not now, not ever!" Dean was tearing up again, wrapping his arms around Sam, "just breathe, slow. Breathe like me, Sam!" Dean inhaled against his brother, exhaling at a normal rate, "Like me, Sam," Dean breathed in big, "Just like this, c'mon do it with me," he exhaled, and he thought he felt Sam's swift breaths hitch, "Breathe with me, like this," inhale, "just slow it down," exhale, "you can do it," inhale, "we'll do this together," Sam's gasps were slowing, "that's right," Sam seemed to be coming back, "just like that, take it easy," Sam was almost matching him, his heart still pounding in his chest, but no longer like a rabbit's, "that's good" Dean closed his eyes, nodding his head even though Sam's was over his shoulder, "You're okay, Sammy, I've gotcha," Sam's heart was slowing down, Dean could feel the thumping in both his chest and his brother's. With his everything pulled close to him, Dean continued to breath with Sam, keeping him calm, keeping him steady. He let the tears flow, not caring anymore, because he was doing this. He was keeping Sam steady. He was keeping Sam strong.

He was keeping him anchored.

He was keeping him sane.

He was keeping his brother alive, and right at that moment, he couldn't care less if he was crying or not.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

"And you're ugly."

It was early, the sun had only just risen, but neither of them could've slept even if it had been dark. The cabin was full of the scent of cheap noodles and too-pungent chicken flavoring as Dean warmed up the same flavor Top Ramen he'd been eating all week. He pulled the steaming bowl out of the microwave, silently blessing Bobby for having one in the place. He grabbed another bowl and set about pouring out the broth, leaving only noodles in the first bowl, intent on trying to get Sam to drink the broth, even if it _was_ too strongly flavored.

"You shoot like a cop."

"I'm_ not_ going to hit you, Sammy."

It would've been amusing, except that it wasn't. A small part of Dean wanted to smile at his brother's poorly devised plan to insult him until Dean hit him in anger, hopefully knocking him unconscious or, if he was lucky, killing him and putting him out of his literal misery. Yeah, part of him wanted to grin at the silliness of it all.

The rest of him wanted to shoot something. Repeatedly. Preferably a certain witch.

"Girls only sleep with you because they pity you."

"Ouch. Still not gonna work though."

Dean turned to look at his brother. Sam had been retied to the bed, and he spent most of the time writhing, occasionally whimpering or groaning intermittently, but mostly begging for various weapons to commit suicide with. His eyes were the hardest thing to see, and it was the look in them that kept Dean from seeing any humor in the situation, because Sam very seriously wanted nothing more than for Dean to hit him hard enough to kill him.

But it just wasn't going to happen. He turned back to the soup, but stopped when Sam spoke again, his voice soft and pleading, much like it had been for the last several hours.

"Dean-"

"Sam," the elder Winchester interrupted in a tone that was half warning, half apology, "I'm _not_ going to hit you, I'm _not_ going to give you a gun, and you can ask me a million times, but the answer is _not_ going to ch-!"

"-can I have some water?"

The bottom dropped out of Dean's stomach. Guilt washed over and under and through him in a rush, and he had to close his eyes even though his back was to his brother, hating himself for a moment. Sam had only been asking for water. For _water_, and Dean was gonna chew him out.

"Sure, Sammy. Of course you can," Dean grimaced as he filled a glass under the tap, cursing inwardly at his stupidity and insensitivity. _He's in the worst pain of his life and I can't even stand to be patient! Nice, Dean. Great big brother._ He gave a slight sigh, then came to the bedside, full glass in hand.

Nothing was said as Dean held the tall cup to Sam's lips, and as Sam sipped a bit, their eyes met briefly, almost by mistake. It was the look there that should have told Dean immediately that something was amiss, because Sam's eyes were dull and resigned, decided. Sammy's eyes always spoke volumes to Dean, and for the smallest moment, he forgot to react to what he was reading in those eyes, but instead merely studied their bluntness, the lack of fire and the coldness of them. Dean barely had time to notice the subtlety before the sound of shattering glass startled him out of his observation.

Suddenly, his breath came short and his eyes bulged at what Sam had done, was doing.

Sam had gripped the glass cup with his teeth, swung his head around, pulling it out of Dean's hand, and smashed it on the headboard above him, before clenching his teeth again on a particularly long shard and slashing at himself as far as he could reach under his chin.

"SAM!" Dean scrambled to pull the broken glass away without cutting his brother further, but he only managed to get his own hand sliced, "Aaagh! Sammy, don't!" he grabbed for the glass again, this time getting it out of Sam's mouth, and then picked up the other pieces scattered on the pillow and sheet.

Dean rushed to dump the shards in the sink, grabbing a rag and wrapping it on his hand before practically flying back to the bed and checking Sam's self inflicted cuts.

Dean swore loudly and angrily, but it was nothing compared to the foulness that was coursing out of Sam's angry mouth. The extent of Sam's frustrated cursing would've surprised Dean is he hadn't been distracted by the long slices along his brother's collarbone.

"What the heaping heck were you thinking, Sam!" Dean demanded, choosing anger over a show of fear or relief, barely absorbing the look that Sam was throwing at him as he cleaned the cuts, which were long but shallow, "Hurting yourself is not going to make _me_ hurt _you_! You can't make me mad enough to hit you at all, so stop it _right now_!" Dean swore once more, but this time less loudly, shaking his head while he wiped up blood and glass, "I mean, c'mon Sammy, if you think a broken cup is gonna make me _that_ angry-"

Dean stopped. Sam was looking at him with the clearest 'are you stupid?' expression on the planet. His face screamed that Dean wasn't getting it, and the older brother watched the now normal pained look wash over Sam's features once more as he spoke in a thoroughly 'duh' kind of voice.

"I was trying to slit my throat, idiot."

A moment passed in silence, during which Sam's eyes filled up with tears they both thought had run out long ago, and Dean's eyes closed to keep in tears he wished he didn't have. He kept his eyes closed even as Sam spoke again, pleading just as he had been for days on end.

"Kill me…_please_…" Dean stood and went to the sink. He poured out his noodles. He didn't have an appetite anymore.

"Kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me…"

Dean decided he didn't care how long that witch lived. He decided to forget about what she would do while she lived out there. He decided it didn't matter what happened to her.

He decided he was never going to take Sammy near that forest ever again.

Nothing was worth the risk of this happening a second time.

The sensation came upon him suddenly.

The fire had been eating through his bones, metal had been sawing through his core, and something with a cruelly jagged maw had been gnawing slowly and continuously at his extremities. He'd had no knowledge of time or his surroundings, his thought process had for the time being ceased to reach past his pain to find the brother who refused to show him the mercy of death.

Then the fire turned cold. He was instantly freezing, ice traveling up his veins and pouring into his heart, spurting out and shooting up to his brain. For an infinitesimal second, the pain peaked, reaching an intensity far beyond anything he had thus far experienced, and his mind was no longer bending, but had surely broken, and perhaps Dean had agreed to kill him after all, because this must be what hell truly was, because he was undone, far past logic or sight or sound.

Then, the most glorious thing happened, something far better than any paradise he could've imagined.

Numbness.

The tingling prickle that you usually feel when your foot falls asleep swept over his entirety, and for the first time in what he had once believed to be centuries, he could feel nothing. Glorious, awesome, perfect nothingness.

The numbness began to fade, slowly at first, then with growing clarity, like sight returning to a blind man, or waking after a drug-induced nightmare.

For the first time in six torturous days, Sam felt something other than agony. In fact, he felt no measure of pain at all.

He still saw nothing, heard nothing. He wasn't sure whether he was breathing or not, or if his heart was still beating, or if his mind was still intact, but he decided it didn't matter, because this was too wonderful to be drowned by any concerns as trivial as those.

This feeling, this change, this absolute reprieve…

It was like being reborn.

The convulsions came upon him suddenly.

Dean had been about to call Bobby again, though he wasn't sure what he had planned to ask or report. Sam had been lying in his now familiar position, mumbling incoherently and moaning.

It was the last day, the sun had set, the stars were out, and Dean was pacing. He just wanted Sam to be okay again, to sleep without having to be knocked unconscious, to eat real food with his brother, to talk and joke and laugh and not want to die.

He paced amidst the sounds, and it seemed there were too many of them, niggling at is nerves, boring into his eardrums, making him more and more nervous.

Then things got very quiet in the cabin very fast. It seemed that every thing slowed, like when someone takes a deep breath and holds it waiting for something. Instinctively, Dean turned to glance at Sam, his thumb frozen over the send button, his every intuition telling him something was about to happen.

Sam stopped moving for a second. He stilled and breathed deeply, the inhale sounding clear and easy for the first time in so long that it seemed wrong somehow.

Dean waited.

Sam didn't exhale.

"Sammy?" images of his brother on the forest floor, not breathing, on the bed in shock, not breathing; they flashed and mixed in his mind, bringing back the same fear, the same jolt, the same stuttering terror that this was out of his control, beyond the reach of his aid. He was already running across the room, but before he had moved more than a foot, Sam's eyes rolled high and back, and his entire body was racked with spasms as he began to convulse, back arching, mouth gaping, and hand half-fisted with his arms stiffened at awkward angles.

"SAM!" Dean untied him again, remembering the last time, and the too recent memory of the experience swept over him again. He gripped his brother around the waste, trying to hold him still, but the seizure was too powerful, and Sam continued to jerk and buck even in his arms.

And for about ninety seconds, Dean feared that his was it. Panic drenched him completely, as he thought of how much Sam had gone through, how much he had tried to help him, how much they had both conquered together in the past months that now seemed so short a time. Dean didn't have enough sense to even cry, because this couldn't be happening, Sam was supposed to make it through this, Dean was supposed to carry Sam through this, he was supposed to keep him safe and sane and strong, he was supposed to keep him anchored so that Sam could continue to anchor _him_ like his baby brother had been unwittingly doing his whole life…

"No!" Dean yelled at no one and anyone who might hear. Sam's body rocked and Dean gritted his teeth as he held him, "Do you hear me?! NO!" _No_, his thoughts echoed his words, pleading, praying, _please…not when we were this close…_

Sam felt rough wool beneath the heels of his bare feet, then air, then the material again. He felt blankets brush against his fingers. It was incredible; to _feel_ again. He could suddenly feel his shirt and jeans. His clothes were vaguely familiar, like reuniting with old friends, and he was immensely pleased that he could sense them again. He felt his hair drag against what must've been a pillow, and then the he felt just air again.

He wondered if he was moving.

All at once, smells crashed into him. A week's worth of sweat sent a reeking scent up his nostrils, and though he ought to have been disgusted by it, it was instead welcomed, because he had never realized how purely magical it was to _smell_ before. Old blood, stale and dry was there as well, with a scent like rust and rot. He could smell the mustiness of dirt and wood, dust tickling his nose.

Oh, for him to feel a tickle again. It was indescribably terrific.

And there was something else, the last thing to come upon his newly restored, or perhaps just temporarily forgotten, senses. He felt arms, uncommonly strong and intensely well-known, wrapped around him tightly, but pressing against him only at odd points; now against his back, now against his shoulder, and he again wondered if he was moving. He felt leather and flannel rub on his arms, and he felt jeans against his jeans. He felt an ear next to his, and a face with stubble scratched the side of his neck. He felt skin against the skin of his own cheek, and soft hair next to his own. He took in the scent of worn, dirty leather and, oddly enough, recognized the smell of chicken Top Ramen. He could smell a kind of spice, like cologne, and the body odor that comes from not showering for a few days.

He could feel Dean. He could smell Dean. And he could hear Dean.

"No, no, no, no, no…" he could hear fear and denial in that remarkably beautiful voice. It was strange, how angelic Dean's edgy rumble seemed, like the most heart-warming melody to Sam's blessedly painless ears. It was strange how comforting his grip was, tight and rigid, but at the same time not unwelcome or awkward. It was strange also that Dean sounded so scared; Sam couldn't understand what there was to worry about.

Sensation continued to come back to him, and as it did he began to understand that he was more than moving, that he was shaking and jerking. He was aware that he was bucking, and he felt how tense his limbs were, like an invisible vice had him in its grip and was shaking him like a rag doll. But Sam could feel control returning, and he was conscious of how to control his movements, his own body, once more. He was suddenly able to calm himself, feeling the ice in his veins calm and normal temperature begin to move through him. Sam was able to just lie there, breathing comfortably and happily, more than grateful to be freed from the terror and torture and to be here with his brother, out of hell and into the only heaven he had ever had reason to believe in.

Painless.

Then he heard the only other thing that could possibly make this any better.

"Sammy?"

It wasn't the word. The word was commonplace, even if it meant much more than something common. It wasn't even so much who was saying it, though that mattered quite a bit.

No, the best part about hearing Dean say his name, was the _way_ that he said it. Not scared, not crying, not upset, but with hope.

Sam knew that both he and Dean had hope once again.

And along with the painlessness came something else.

An anchor.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

The awkward sounds of a sitcom laugh track sounded as Kelsey Grammar let a clever one-liner fly. The small TV's volume was low, but loud enough that the joke was heard and the fake laughs were joined by real ones; laughs that were much needed and had been sorely missed for a very long time.

Dean sat with one leg bent on the bed, the other resting on the carpeted floor. He leaned comfortably against the head board, a bag of peanut M&M's in hand, and chuckled. He cast a glance to his left and smiled even wider when he saw Sam's tired but sincerely happy grin as he lay propped on a mountain of pillows, eyes still on the TV screen. Dean faced forward again, allowing himself to forget that this was a totally cheesy moment, just this once. Sam wasn't in pain, Dean had candy, and this show was actually funny.

Right then, he was content.

They'd come a long way from the forest, a good two hours or so. Dean had practically had to carry Sam out of the cabin; the younger brother's muscles were completely worn out. Yet even in his weakness and exhaustion, Sam hadn't been able to stop smiling.

It had taken Dean a lot longer. He'd had to tell himself repeatedly that Sam wasn't going to start screaming again or stop breathing again. He'd had to force himself to stop flinching every time Sam made a sound. He'd had to bite his tongue to keep from asking if Sam was sure he wasn't hurting.

But then, after they gotten to the car, driven about eighty miles, and made it to a decent motel with cable and Tivo, Dean was able to relax some. He was fairly certain that Sam was actually pretty sore; he'd taken a pretty heavy beating, what with his bruised body, welted wrists, sliced arms, and other various injuries, but Sam didn't seem to notice any of them, and Dean guessed that in comparison to what he'd been through, any amount of bruises was like nothing. The younger Winchester couldn't actually get up on his own, but he just looked so _happy_.

After spending three non-cursed days in the motel, Sam had stopped jumping at small noises, no longer needed aid to make it to the restroom, and was once again eating like a normal human being. His euphoria at painlessness hadn't quite faded, and he still smiled a lot more than was necessary, but Dean didn't mind in the slightest. He figured they would probably take off in a day or so, and if Sam was gonna be all smiley and optimistic for a while, then that was fine by him. Dean decided they would head out of the stupid, dangerous, and majorly overrated state of Colorado the next morning.

Or at least they would have, if it hadn't been for a certain call from a certain someone.

Dean had been in the shower, and so it was Sam who had picked up the phone when it rang, the sounds of Queensryche being emitted as the cell's ringtone. He'd had to cross the room to reach it, and he was still a little slow, so it was on the fourth ring by the time he had flipped it open and seen the caller I.D.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Sam! How're you doing, you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure? I mean really?"

"Yeah, why?" Sam titled his head curiously. Bobby seemed to hesitate before he went on.

"Well, I...I know what it's like, what happened to you. It's an awful experience, and I'm sorry you had to go through that. I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah...yeah," Sam looked at the floor, frowning a bit. He gave a shrug, even though he knew Bobby couldn't see him, "it was - hard, ya know? I didn't...I honestly didn't think I was gonna make it...didn't want to." They were both quiet for a moment, and Sam had to gather himself away from the too vivid memories that were stirring before he spoke again.

"So what were you calling about? You got a hunt for us or something?" Sam waited for Bobby to answer, but all he got was quiet, "Bobby?" The man answered this time, but his tone seemed slightly off, like he was nervous about something.

"Is Dean around?"

"He's in the shower, why?" Silence again, "Bobby, what?" Sam listened, worried now, and he heard the sound of Bobby sighing heavily through the earpiece before he answered. He voice was almost muffled a for a moment, and Sam imagined that he was pulling a hand over his face.

"I hate to do this to you Sam, I do, but there's really no way around it." Sam sat slowly onto the edge of the bed, eyes alert, his posture tense. He gripped the phone a little tighter and stilled himself for whatever he was about to hear, because from the sound of Bobby's tight voice it was obviously not going to be pleasant.

"Tell me," he demanded in a quiet voice. So Bobby told him.

Dean pulled the scratchy towel across his shoulders, over his face, and through his hair. He pulled on his jeans, and cinched his belt, humming all the while.

He paused, realizing he was humming the theme song to Welcome Back Kotter.

"Alright, that's enough syndicated programming for you, my friend," he muttered to himself, grabbing his t-shirt and stepping out of the foggy restroom.

Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from Dean, looking down at something in his hands. Dean strolled over to his bed, at ease.

"So whaddaya say, Sammy, you ready put this sucky state in the rear view?" Dean was in the act of pulling his shirt over his head when he'd spoken, and with his face still searching for the right hole to exit out of, he didn't see Sam's response; actually, he didn't see that Sam made no response at all.

"Sam?"

"Bobby called."

"Yeah? What did he say?" Dean pulled the shirt down and smoothed it out. He turned to glance at his brother and stopped in the middle of reaching for his boots. Something about Sam's stillness seemed…off.

"Everything okay?" Dean asked, striding around the bead to see Sam's face. Sam didn't meet his eyes.

"We have to go back," Sam said flatly. Dean blinked.

"Go back where?"

"Back to the forest. Back to finish the hunt." The bottom of Dean's stomach dropped out.

"No."

"Dean-"

"No way."

"That witch is still alive, she can still hurt people-"

"I said _no_."

"But Bobby thinks-"

"Screw what Bobby thinks! Screw the hunt! Screw the whole state of Colorado!" Dean yelled, and he hated how he sounded, but he couldn't help it, he was _not_ going to let this happen, "That thing almost killed you, Sam! It put you through a living hell-"

"Yeah, I remember that part, thanks," Sam said quietly, but he might as well have screamed it, because Dean shut right up, feeling like a major jerk. Sam kept talking, "Dean, I know it's a lot to ask, but Bobby had to and he's right. Another hiker's gone missing. We're the closest ones, we know everything we need to, we have the stuff we need to kill it. We have to go back."

"Sam, I don't want you anywhere near-"

"You think I want to be?" Sam snapped, "You think I want to face that again? You think it doesn't scare me to death? Because it _does_, Dean," Sam took a step toward him, and Dean had to consciously work to keep himself from stepping away, he was so startled to see Sam looking so fierce, "I'm terrified! I want to get as far away as possible! But I'm not gonna sit here like a coward and let other people die or worse because I didn't _do _myfriggin'_ job_ and kill this thing! We are going back and we're gonna take that thing _down_ and you know what," Sam poked a finger at Dean's chest, "don't you tell _me_ what it put me through! Don't talk like you know, because you have absolutely _no_ idea!" Dean couldn't speak, all he could do was stare while Sam stood huffing and glaring at him. Sam sighed and wiped a hand over his face, stepping away before he spoke, his voice back to a normal volume, "We have to do this, Dean. I need to do this."

Dean's first attempt at a response came out soundless. He swallowed and tried again, the bottom of his stomach back but feeling like lead.

"Okay," he said quietly, looking grimfaced at his younger brother, "we'll go back." They stood there for a minute or so, Dean looking a bit ashamed as he gathered himself and Sam looking a bit ashamed at his outburst.

They packed their bags and checked out of the room. Sam took the keys, and Dean didn't protest.

The open road and setting sun bade the Impala forward as the brothers sped toward a danger neither of them wanted to face.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

The Impala cruised down an eerily familiar mountain highway, its headlights once again the only brightness for miles. On the left side of the speeding car, a wide view of the night sky showed the dark clouds that hid the stars from view, darkening an already bleak horizon. On the other side, an even darker view of the dense forest that sheltered the Cave Witch somewhere inside crept up to the edge of the road, seemingly hungry for more victims, or perhaps just another taste of an old one.

Sam pressed the brake, pulling the key out of the ignition. He paused to calm himself, trying to gain control of the hands he knew would be shaking if he weren't gripping the steering wheel. He glanced at his brother beside him in the passenger seat, and an awkward but familiar sensation of déjà vu swept over him.

"Dude," Sam muttered, giving Dean a half-joking, half-scared-spitless grin, "this is the weirdest do-over feeling I've ever had."

Dean just gave him a look that clearly said 'I would so punch you right now if I wasn't worried about you dying during the next hour.' Sam rolled his eyes and opened the door.

They met at the trunk. Sam stuck the key in and Dean pulled it open, the creak sounding too loud in the unnatural quiet around them. The didn't talk, just grabbed respective guns.

Sam pretended he didn't see Dean's guilty grimace when he handed him of one the bags of blessed ashes that had gone unused last time.

Dean shut the Impala's truck with more force than was necessary. He felt a little mean; the poor girl hadn't done anything wrong, but he was frustrated.

He didn't want to be back here. He didn't want Sam to be back here. _If anything happens to him…_

"Dean," Sam's voice was a question; he seemed nervous, like he didn't want to say what he was about to. Dean kept his face neutral, knowing what was coming, "you um, you probably already know, I mean you remember…" Dean could tell Sam was trying to keep him from feeling guilty, trying to say it without making it sound like it was Dean's fault.

It didn't matter. Dean had known it was his fault from the moment he'd pulled Sam out of the woods a week ago.

"Shoot the hand first, then the head. I remember, Sammy." He made sure to smile when he said it, wanting Sam to stop looking ashamed.

"Yeah."

"Yeah." They stood there for a second, just breathing.

"You ready?" Sam asked. Dean didn't trust his voice, so he merely nodded. He watched Sam's face harden, becoming determined and focused; a hunter.

"Okay," Sam said, and it was strange how sure his voice sounded, "let's go."

Sam let Dean take point, knowing his brother would throw a fit if he argued.

They kept eyes peeled, each step measured and cautious, the forest thick with silence around them as they entered the same place they'd been the last time. It seemed that the witch was nowhere.

But Sam recalled just how quiet the witch could be.

He saw her before Dean did, and it was only because Dean was momentarily distracted. Sam noted the strangeness of it in the split second before he reacted; it was strange how Dean was mimicking they way Sam had acted the last time, how he turned to check on his brother, how the witch leapt from the same blind spot, how it was Sam that wore the look of horror this time, an Sam that felt the thrill of frantic fear that shot through him at the thought of the witch's claws hurting his brother.

But it was different this time. Sam got to Dean first.

"DEAN, DOWN!"

Sam pulled Dean out of the way at the last second, and the witch screeched furiously as she streaked past, her momentum sending her crashing through the trees. Sam rolled to his feet, hearing Dean cursing and doing the same.

"Where is she?"

"I don-"

"SAM!"

Sam dropped, but he made sure to flop on his back instead of his belly this time. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as the witch flew over him toward his still standing brother, Sam managing to toss a black cloud of ash at her just as she was above him, Dean failing to bring his gun up in time, the witch slowing and screaming louder, screeching at the wounding effects of the ash, the witch slamming into Dean and tumbling with him, Dean Colliding with a tree and crumpling to the ground, the witch standing and leering over him, Sam shouting and stumbling as he rushed to get up, get to his brother, save his brother, _Dean, hold on!_

Sam knew the witch couldn't run away now, knew what he had to do. He bolted as fast as he could towards the Cave Witch that was lifting a clawed hand to strike at his brother, and Sam raised his gun to fire just as Dean began to scream in pain.

Dean knew when Sam saw her.

He knew when he saw the look of horror appear on his little brother's face, because it was the same expression that Dean had made the last time, when Sam had turned to glance at him. Dean knew then that this mistake would be his last, that there was just no time, he couldn't move fast enough, she would get him, kill him…

"DEAN, DOWN!" Dean felt himself being tackled onto the grass, and he was surprised that the hands grabbing him weren't clawed, that the voice yelling was his brother's and not the witch's. He cussed, angry at himself, and rolled to his feet next to his brother who was already standing. _Good job, Sammy._

"Where is she?" Dean asked, feeling like a massive idiot, eyes darting through the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of her tattered dress, her clawed hands, her stark white hair. Sam's answer came just as he saw her dashing toward them again.

"I don-"

"SAM!" Dean had time to admire his brother's response, time to understand the meaning of the ashes his brother through into the air directly in the witch's path as he dropped, time to thank whatever higher power was watching them that at least _Sam_ knew what he was doing.

What he didn't have to do was jump out of the way.

He heard Sam's shout just as the witch slammed into him like a truck, sending him flying with her and tumbling, tumbling, rolling. He felt rocks scrape his face and twigs break under him, he heard the witch shrieking and himself gasping. Then he felt himself collide with a very solid tree and he saw stars, his vision winking out for a moment as his body collapsed from the force of the impact, and when he opened his eyes again the witch was standing to her feet, slowed by the ashes but just as dangerous, and he was just about to reach for the gun that he hoped was still in his waistband…

He froze. Then again, maybe burned was a more fitting term. He forgot where he was, what he was doing, what was happening. He forgot about his brother, forgot about his survival, forgot his own name, because pain like he'd never experienced was covering him, smothering him, ripping apart his body and mind an soul, renting him in two, three, hundreds of pieces, and then…

Bliss. Numbness. He inhaled, a wretched gasp.

_Am I dead? His ears were ringing, his arms and legs tingling. He couldn't see anything._

He exhaled in a huff, and sucked in another breath.

_What happened? Sammy?_

He let his air out again, and this time it sounded like a sob. Sound and sensation rushed back to him, and he could suddenly feel the forest grass and twigs under him, realizing he was lying down on his left side with the tree grating against his back. _Weird, it doesn't hurt._ He could hear shuffling and shouting, someone calling his name, _Sam?_

He still couldn't see. He realized he was covering his face with his hands, his whole body shaking. He decided not to move.

"…please, answer me! Dean? Dean!" Sam was shaking him, trying to pick him up. Dean forced his hands down from his eyes, and he saw a very frantic Sam looking utterly terrified. He saw the body of the witch, her arms bloody stumps and her face blown away.

He couldn't stop shaking.

"S-s-sam-mm-m…" he croaked.

"Dean?! Dean, can you hear me?"

"Wh-what…what happ-happened?"

"She's gone, she'd dead, Dean." Dean tried to sit up and found that it was very difficult. Sam gripped his shoulders and pulled him up. Dean tried to calm his trembling hands. He swallowed, staring at the ground.

He couldn't bring himself to meet Sam's eyes.

"Dean? Dean what is it, what hurts?"

"Nothing."

"What? Dean, what?"

"Nothing hurts. I feel fine." He could feel Sam staring at him.

"Dean you were screaming your lungs out." Dean looked up at him, forgetting his earlier determination to avert his eyes.

"I…what?"

"You were screaming. I've never heard you scream like that." Sam was shaking now, and Dean noticed how pale he was, how wild his eyes looked, like he had just narrowly avoided a full of panic attack.

Dean decided to fess up.

"She…I was…" Dean began, but he was sure how to describe it. He assumed it was the same thing she'd done to Sam, the torture that felt like it would never end, agony upon agony a thousand times, hellish fire and ripping and slicing and pain beyond pain…

He saw Sam's expression change, and he knew Sam understood what had happened.

"Holy crap…" Sam said.

"Yeah."

"Dean…" Sam started, but they both knew there was nothing to say.

They stood, Sam helping Dean stand shakily. They walked slowly back to the Impala.

They'd been walking in silence for about five minutes when Dean blurted it out, the question he'd been arguing with himself over asking since they'd started walking.

"How is that possible, Sam?" They stopped walking, and Sam looked puzzled at the question.

"What do you mean?"

"What she did…how did you…I mean, it was a whole week. I only felt it for ten seconds. It was impossible…I was dying, worse than dead…how could you…how did you…" Dean was stumbling over his words, unable to figure out his own question. He looked at Sam with brimming eyes, not caring about staying tough at this point, "You lived through _that_ for six days?"

Sam looked stricken.

"Yeah," Sam said, shrugging weakly, "I guess I did."

They stared at each other for a moment, then continued walking. Dean didn't bother to wipe away the tears that had spilt down his face.

The Impala beckoned them from the highway. Dean watched Sam as he strode to the driver's side again, and for a moment the elder brother remembered seeing Sam enduring the curse, the screaming and the sobbing and the pain.

Dean thought about the agony he had just felt.

As he slid into the passenger seat, he decided that there was no contest.

Seeing Sam suffering through it had definitely hurt more.

The growl of the Impala's engine sounded, and the black car drove off into the night, leaving the strains of Metallica in it's wake.

THE END


End file.
